


Water Gives Way to Blood

by DreamersAndThieves



Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, mentions Puck and Sean briefly, very briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamersAndThieves/pseuds/DreamersAndThieves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story challenge from the 2014 Scorpio Races November Festival (on tumblr). Original characters and such.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Catch a Capall

The last few weeks before November first were passing by quick, they always did. Stormclouds were rolling in from the west, I could see the line clearly from the cliff above Skarmouth’s beach. It was rumored that the best capaill wash up on shore during storms and one of those was what I intended to catch. I needed to win and I needed that money.

Light began to fade as the sun set. The last of the suns rays were swallowed whole by the thundering grey clouds which were only a mile or so off shore. The surf was already getting choppy and like a siren’s song, I could hear the screams of the capaill uisce as they howled above the winds. I made my way down the rocky cliff path to the sandy beach and waited. There were others waiting with me, they had metal and iron chains slung about their waists and over their shoulders. Just waiting to wrangle and harm their capaill into captivity. I didn’t believe in that superstitious crap. All I had with me were a few strong ropes and my own strength.

The storm rolled in quick after that. Winds howled louder and waves brought the water horses up on shore. The first appeared out of the surf in a frenzy, it’s eyes were the bottomless abyss as it thundered toward the nearest islander. Shouts and screams rang in the air.

A flash of lightning, then a loud crack of thunder. Two or three of the horses were spotted off shore and men behind me were calling dibs. Off in the distance, down toward the rocky end of the beach, I spot a large shadow. Dodging around struggling islanders, I head that way. It’s a capall, of course, but it’s smaller than all the others. Certainly not less muscular though, I could only see its form for a brief second as lightning flashed again. The horse was a deep sea blue, white dotted along its legs and flanks. It’s mane was that same brilliant white and it’s eyes were as black as the abyss. The blue capall screamed above the storms noise as it saw me, but I worked quick to rope it.

The storm must have tired us both, even though there was a struggle, the blue capall finally gave in. I had my horse, now I can race. But she, yes, the fearless little capall uisce was female, needed a name. Why not Mealla? Lightning. On the first day of November, Mealla, we will win these races. Then you will be set free to the harsh sea once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mealla is pronounced MYAL-a


	2. Beach Training

  _I, Jemma Cardiff, am racing in this year’s Scorpio Sea Races. My father had been there last year when a girl named Puck Connolly entered. She rode an_ island pony _against all the_ capaill  _and that was just insane. So my father was fine with me entering, he also knew a few other young girls who had decided to enter this year. I had grown up on the small little island of Thisby, but my family and I left quite a few years ago to find better opportunity. Although we were one of the more fortunate families on the island (my father was friends with the Malvern’s although he didn’t quite like talking to them). My parents wanted me to get a better education and my father just needed a better house. So we made the treacherous journey to the mainland. We all survived. This year’s races had been the first time I would go back to Thisby with my father (my mother had stayed on the mainland since she hadn’t been feeling well the past few weeks). I had cut my curly brown hair shorter than usual, to my chin, so the officials would see me as less of a “girl” and more of a tomboy. Hopefully it would work._

                I woke early on the day beach training had been slotted for. My father was already up and wished me well and hoped that my  _capall_ mare would obey my commands and not the commands of the sea. I hurried down from the little loft we had rented out of the Malvern’s guest house and down to the stables where Mealla was kept.  It was about forty-five minutes over the start time when all the jockeys were allowed to go to the beach, but I didn’t want to get there too early. I suspected that the surf was still high and choppy from the storm that had just passed last night. For the past couple days, I had tried to bond with Mealla. I had taken her out into the Malvern’s pastures to see how well she would do. Mealla was fast, to say the least. I had just barely stopped her from hurdling the fence quite a few times though.

                The morning sun was just barely filtering through the clouds on the first day of beach training. And I could taste the salt in the air. The sea was a dark deep blue, just like Mealla, and the cliffs were a stark bone white. The beach and the whole island of Thisby looked sickly today. I lead the mare closer to the beach cautiously, through her, I can feel the magic of the sea calling. And that mysterious magic wasn’t even at its height yet. Everyone had trouble coming for them.

                There were dozens of jockeys and  _capaill uisce_ near cliffs, only the brave ones were closer to the almost-November waters. Mealla whinnies and tries to rear up on her back legs, I pull on the reins and she snaps out of it. Four hooves are firmly planted on the ground. It makes for a safe few seconds. We make our way down the small cliff path and onto the sandy beach. The only somewhat open spot was right here by where the path ended. All along the beach there were huge _capaill_ stallions and mares. They were all colors of Thisby: black, red, gold, all shades of white and blue. Of course, there were the normal colors: the lighter browns and greys. A few boys had clustered in the space around Mealla and I, they were talking smack to each other and a few were aiming jabs at me. One boy was on his huge ivory colored stallion, but I could tell by the sea foam frothing at the stallion’s mouth that it wasn’t going to listen to the boy. I had just mounted Mealla for the first time and it seemed to be going well. She sidestepped a little toward the sea, I could tell it was still calling to her.

                Next thing I heard was a high scream from the ivory  _capall_ the boy was riding. His friends were shouting but couldn’t do anything because they had to keep their horses under control. The boy was too scared to even try and control the huge stallion, so he and the  _capall_ careened toward the sea, and I was in its path. The ivory  _capall uisce_ bared its huge teeth and its head snaked toward Mealla’s neck once he was close enough. Mealla reared up, throwing me off her slick, seaweed textured back. My mare screamed in fright as the ivory stallion tried to bite her, but she flung her front legs out, one hoof collided with the stallions head and he backed off. He backed off then made a beeline for the sea. The boy fell from his back, there was no hope for the ivory stallion anymore. But Mealla had been thrown into a frenzy. Her front legs thudded down back onto the sand right in front of my face. I felt the  _whoosh_ of the air and the small spray of sand hit my face, getting in my eyes.

                The boys were shouting again and Mealla screamed, I could just tell she wanted to bolt for the sea. I wished someone would help, but I knew they were all busy with their own water horses. I felt her hooves leave the sand again, they could come down closer to my face this time so with just  _seconds_ to spare, I rolled to the left, away from certain death.

                I hopped up quickly and put my hands up, eventually I grab the reins and get Mealla to calm down. We were done for today. Hopefully tomorrow, some of the jockeys would have given up and let their  _capaill uisce_ go back to the sea. And hopefully some of the others had just given up. Maybe tomorrow, the magic of the November sea would have calmed some so we could make progress.


	3. The Riders Parade

My father knocks on the door to the bathroom before his voice rings out, “Jemma, parade starts at eleven. We have to get going. It’s already ten thirty.”

                I call back that  _“I’ll be ready in a minute, father,”_ but really, I don’t think I want to go. The festival and declaring that we would be riding is the final straw. It’s like jumping into the sea, you know what will happen, but you don’t know how you’ll go or how fast it would happen. You declare your name and there’s no backing out because everyone on this island knew who you were and they would call you a coward. I couldn’t do that, I _would not._

                I steeled myself and opened the door. My father was still there, he must’ve been waiting. A small smile pulls at the edges of his lips, a strange sight. “You look wonderful, sweetheart.” I was wearing what I usually did for events though. It was nothing special. I wore a black skirt which came to just a few inches above my kneecaps, the only detail on it were two white stripes across the bottom near the hem. And paired with the skirt I wore a simple white button up blouse. It was the opposite of the skirt in the way that along the quarter sleeves, there were two black stripes. Black and white seemed to symbolize the races for me. The extremes of how the races would turn out, there were only two options. Black, you wouldn’t make it to see next years’ races. Or white, you’d be lucky enough to see the next day and go home.

                My father was still dressed more casually than me, though it seemed men were always more casual anyway. Anyway, in the next few moment, we headed out of the Malvern’s guest house and towards Skarmouth. We decided to walk, it reminded my father of the good-old-days when he used to walk everywhere around the island with his buddies. Off in the distance, we could see the pale red glow in the darkened night sky. The festivities had already begun earlier that day and we were going to be late for the rider’s parade. “Maybe we should’ve gotten a ride,” my father says to himself. But we make it on time anyway.

                My father gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, he’ll let me go do whatever things I have to do alone. He thinks it’s better for me to experience it alone. He says that he’s heading to the Black-Eyed Girl, which is apparently a pub. Father points a long finger toward a green faced building that had people spilling out of it before heading that way, calling out over his shoulder,  _“good luck, Jem! You’ll do great!”_

* * *

There’s noise everywhere and barely any room to navigate the roads of Skarmouth because there were so many people. The tourists got in the way because they were trying to figure out exactly where they were going when the little city was only so big. But the vendors and everyone else involved with the festival crowded the streets also. The Scorpio Drummers beat noise into the air. There were so many drummers but each of them beat at the same time, like the collective heartbeat of the island and everyone on it. Up on the cliff, I saw people throwing tinder into the huge bonfire at the top of the cliff. A little ways away, I see people throwing things over the cliff into the rising waters.

                Tonight, thankfully, was clear. But the dark, dark Scorpio Sea was still reaching up toward us to claim another unsuspecting victim. I make my way up the incline toward where all the other jockeys had probably already gathered. Everything was beginning to start. The wind whipped my short hair around my face and flung little embers from the fire over the edge of the cliff. Little specs of light fizzled out just a few feet over the cliff. I stand among the outer rings of the people and wait as the ceremony begins.

                A man climbs up onto that gigantic flat rock with a wooden bowl. His voice is strong and rings out above the noise of the crowd. “It falls to me to speak for the man—“

                “Or woman!” Someone shouts from the crowd, interrupting his ancient speech. The voice sounded close and female.

                He continues, “Or woman who will not ride. Rider without a name. Horse without a name. By his or her blood.” As the man continues, he tips the bowl and blood splashes down onto the burgundy stained rock. He makes his exit and Epona, the woman in that old horses head with blood running down her tunic, takes his place. Someone earlier had found that shell that she drops every year. The foolish person wished to win the races. You can’t just rely on magic for that, you have to have skill too. Epona prays to the skies and the winds above us and all noise begins to die down. No one wants to interrupt and have the spirit of Thisby angry at them. I wrench my eyes off of the horse-headed woman to take a look around who was gathered. I find the usual throng of men, but scattered among the crowd were many young girls. That Connolly girl really paved the way for all of us this year.

                By the time I look back to the rock, Peg Gratton had taken Epona’s place. The thing I noticed right away was the knife in her hand. The first few men rise up onto the rock and declare their names and steeds. I hear the names Lenna Sutherly, Amanda, Acheson, Morgan, and so many others. They all sound so confident, even if they didn’t think they were. If I didn’t do this now, I would be the last one, and I didn’t want to be last. So I push my way through a few people and make my way up onto the rock.

                I can feel my nerves, I can feel my hand shaking. But my voice does not waver. “I will ride.” Awkwardly, I push my hand towards Peg Gratton, she flashes the dagger out and makes a small cut on my index finger. I then move my hand over the rock and look out into the crowd. Everyone’s face are aglow in the orange light. They all look demonic, shadows are cast too long and too dark over all of their faces.

                “Jemma Cardiff. Mealla. By my blood.”

                I stand on the rock for a few more seconds looking into the crowd, just thinking to myself.  _If Puck could win the races on that little island pony of hers, these men have something to fear if we’re on the backs of_ capaill _._


	4. Sea Wishes, Rivals and Capall

 It was early in the morning, much too early to call it dawn. The air around me was crisp and wind whipped my dark brown hair around my face like a dirty halo. I had fed Mealla just before I left to go to the cliffs. Originally I planned to go onto the beach, but just below the surface of the water I saw the devilishly serpentine shapes of  _capaill uisce_. The wind around the island caused the Scorpio Sea waves to crest and crash violently upon the shore and carried screams from the water horses. The screams sounded like echoes, echoes of the past, or of sometime long ago when the  _capaill_ ruled this small island.

                I felt dangerous today, so I let my legs dangle over the side of the stark white cliff. It felt like at any moment, that powerful wind could carry me off into the air or into the sea. I wonder,  _is this what the capaill feel? Is this the pull of the sea they love?_ In the past few days, I couldn’t feel inspired enough to go out and train with Mealla. So I had just spent these days sitting here either watching the others or just watching the sea. Sometimes I thought about the races that would happen in just a few weeks and that lead to worst case scenarios. I could die out there. Anyone could die.

                A few days earlier was the Festival and the Riders “Parade”. The cut on my finger had healed, but I could still feel the sting of impending doom or destiny. After the parade, I had wandered to another one of the bonfires and made a sea curse. I had no idea why people called them wishes when you wanted the person on the paper to die. I grabbed a small piece of paper, a piece of charcoal and wrote a name. A name of one of the boys who had criticized and laughed at me that first day of beach training. I had figured out his name only moments earlier at the parade. His name was Caiden and he had a ferocious temper. No one needed that, so I figured that if I made that Sea Curse, everyone would be happier on Thisby since he was an island boy.

                The sun’s rays were just now beginning to peek through the clouds. That small amount of light illuminated the sky in brilliant reds, pinks and oranges. It also illuminated one of the huge creatures in the water. From up on the cliffs it looked as big as a shark and was a deep, dark red like Sean Kendrick’s  _capall_ stallion who had dominated these races for years. The huge red  _capall uisce_ broke the surface just over one of the wave crests and let loose a high scream which was carried on the winds for an impossibly long time. The red horse matched the color of blood in the water and moved just as fluidly. These  _capaill_ were the kings and queens of the sea and this land and they were so lovely.

                Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour passed and I continued to hear the _capaill uisce_ screaming in the waters below. The red  _capall_ disappeared from my view for a while then reappeared on the beach. The creature was even more powerful looking on land. The red stood out more against the whites and creams of the cliffs and beach sand.

                I closed my eyes for only moments before I heard the ominous sound of hooves pounding the earth. Very quickly. Toward me.

                Quickly, quickly, quickly. I scrambled up and away from the cliff. The _capall_ charging toward me was the huge red beast I had seen earlier. I could see more detail now and it was even more beautiful. The huge horse’s mane was a just a shade lighter than the rest of its bloody body and its hooves. They were the same abyssal black as its eyes.

                The serpentine horse charged toward the cliff and I scrambled to hide. There was a small tuft of tall grass meters away and I dove for it. Although I was sure the  _capall uisce_ saw me, it did not give chase. The red horse skidded to stop its massive body just before the edge of the cliff and reared onto its back legs. I stared. I stared and wished that today was the first day, before I had even caught Mealla. She was such a good  _capall_ , but she was the safe choice. She was wild, but she could be tamed. And I could just tell,  _something in my gut told me_ , that this was meant to be my horse. But I couldn’t abandon Mealla now. In those seconds the _capall_ reared up, it looked like the knight, king, and steed all at once.

                The red water horse screamed into the air, it sounded shriller and like the screeching tires of a mainland car close up. Strong muscles rippled underneath its seaweed-looking skin and slits on its neck frilled out just millimeters from where they had been. But my eyes were focused only on details, ones no one would see except they were caught in the same moment.

                I stared out from the little tuft of cliff grass, staring at the majestic creature before me. I hoped the blood red  _capall_ stuck around. And I hoped that I would see it again. Because today, I was going to ask Peg Gratton if I could change my mount. That red  _capall uisce_ was the key to winning. It was Sean Kendrick’s key all those years, so now that other red  _uisce_ would be mine. But only if Peg Gratton would let me change steeds. Mealla was the lightning before the storm, the destruction. But this  _capall uisce_  was the victory. I would miss Mealla if she let me change my mount. But there was no guarantee that I could find this one again.

                I blinked after the longest time. I blinked and the creature was gone. I had to go over to where I saw it to prove it was real. There were, in fact, hoof prints in the loose earth. The creature must have just disappeared. I looked over the cliff, it didn’t jump. Just gone.

                Hopefully not gone forever.


	5. The Day Before (And Father's Advice)

  The races were almost upon us. The red  _capall_ mare never came close to me again, but I saw her ghostly figure surfing through the water whenever I was up on the cliffs. I trained with Mealla a few more times on the beach and a few others obtained injuries. A few tourists had disappeared in the night and others had just left. This year was a dangerous year to be on the island during the races.

                I had taken Mealla out of her stall and was heading down the dusty path once again, leading her with charmed reins and bells, even though Mealla was somewhat tame. My father suddenly appeared beside me, breathing heavily like he had just ran a marathon.

                “Not as in shape as I once was,” he managed to get out as he caught his breath. It was an odd sight. My father had not been around Mealla or any other _capaill uisce_  since we had landed on Thisby’s shores. He didn’t like the water horses but I knew he had been around them earlier in his life, he had been in some of the races during his time on the island when he was a boy. “May I join you?”

                “Sure thing, dad. What’s up?” I replied, a frown pulled the corners of my lips down as he patted Mealla’s neck.  _Why was he so comfortable with them all of a sudden?_

                “I want to give you some advice, sweetheart. About the races. And about how I ran them.”

                My eyes lit up as he began to speak of his long finished tale. We kept our course to the beach but were taken back in time as we headed there.

* * *

                 _Many years ago, before my choice to move to the mainland, my friends and I stood on that beach after catching our_ capall  _and declaring our names in the rider’s parade. I hadn’t yet met your mother, Jemma, so my friends and I were still wild island boys. Arthur and Brian had caught two of the best stallions that had washed up that year. But I had a mare that pounded the earth under her like an earthquake. She was fast, but certainly not as big as the others on the beach that day._

_My two friends and their stallions got along like long lost brothers. We had known each other since we were young, but we were still oblivious to the fact that the island could give and take away. We thought we were invincible._

_Arthur had a wild stallion so he had laced him up with charms all around the poor_ capall’s  _neck. And Brian fought to keep control of his ivory stallion. Down the beach, we saw the Kendrick man with his son and a huge red_ usice _. They looked like they were going to win. They looked dangerous. Arthur just laughed at them and pushed his stallion past, telling me not to worry and that in training, the Kendrick had trouble keeping the stallion from the sea. The races began and right off the start, some_ capaill  _just attacked the others, throwing the jockeys off and ripping limbs from their bodies._

 _Arthur’s wild stallion shot off the mark and began to hurtle toward the finish line. Brian, though, was more unfortunate. He began well, but the stallion kept getting stopped up by others. Screams of the horses distracted the stallion and he shot off toward the sea. Brian’s_ capall uisce  _snaked its head back and grabbed hold of his arm. It threw him in to the water and the stallion’s hooves pounded him into the surf. Red colored the Scorpio Sea beaches. Brian was dead. But Arthur was ahead and with the front of the pack. I was near the back, closest to the cliffs. My mare was well controlled but not as fast. Today was an off day for her. We were at the back of the pack where all the horses turned attention to each other and not the finish line ahead. The race happened in what seemed like seconds and my mare carried me into second to last place. Brian was pounded into the surf without a body to be found and Arthur, he was mangled. His right leg had been torn from his body, because of another horse that got too close, someone said to me. Blood ran down the white sand of the beaches and today was a sad day for everyone except the winner._

* * *

                “So keep your head on straight and stay away from the other  _capaill uisce._ They’ll all be in the middle of the beach, so stay closer to the water or the cliffs. And don’t get caught in a pack, because bad things happen there too.” My father says to end his tale. I nod in understanding then take a deep breath.

                We had reached the beach path just as he had ended his story and now was the time to practice one last time before those danger filled races. My father gives me a rough pat on the shoulder then pulls me into a hug. “Be safe.”


	6. The End is Beginning

My father and I wake up early on the first of November. My father had gone down to Main Street earlier to scope out the quiet places (there were none). But he had found some November cakes for the both of us before Palsson’s sold out of them. We ate in silence, dad finished before me and went to polish up my boots. I had already laid my outfit over the chair in my bedroom the night before. I had stared at the outfit last night in awe, November approached so quickly and it feels like just yesterday we had arrived back on this small little island of Thisby.

                After finishing up and licking the November cake off my fingers, I went into my small little rented room to change. I pull on some dusty colored pants and a darker shirt, over the top of my shirt I tug on a patterned sweater. Just from looking out the window, I could tell the wind was blowing cold today. I still had hours to go before I was supposed to be at the beach, but I didn’t feel like waiting around until the time was upon us. I busied myself with pulling my hair into somewhat of an order. My hair was just a mess of brown curls and I had no idea what to do with it. After just a few minutes, I had brushed most of the curls so they were somewhat uniform then just left it. Racing near the cold, November beach would mess up my hair anyway, so why not just leave it messy to begin with?

                My father had finished polishing my boots and I slipped them on as he watched. My outfit was a mix of black and brown, somewhat dim but colors of the island. My father smiled at me then came over to hug me tightly. “Whatever happens, sweetheart, just know that I’m proud of you, Jemma. You’re just like me when I was younger.”

                For the first time in a while, I hug back. “Thanks, dad. But I’ll see you at the finish line. So don’t worry one bit.”

* * *

                My father is just outside of town holding Mealla by her belled reins, he does not want her spirits to be dampened before the races even start. He said it was the best way, for him to hold her out there, while I get my race colors.

                The streets of Skarmouth are filled to the brim with foreigners and islanders alike. Newspapers from the mainland have reporters all over and are setting off flashbulbs in everyone’s faces. Some of the racers think they’ll be on the cover of those notorious papers, but only the winner will be. There’s only room for one to be Thisby’s champion this year and I hope to all the gods that it’s me. I make my way down to the beach with little resistance from the crowds and head over toward the race official’s table. They are the same men from last year, I hear an islander say. There’s two men in special looking black bowler hats that were two years ago fashion on the mainland. They scowl when I walk up and mumble something like, “ _all these girls this year, what’s wrong with their heads?”_

                “I would like I get my race colors, sirs.”

                “Name?” The man on the right asks.

                “Jemma Cardiff, my  _capall uisce_ is Mealla.”

                “Sure thing little lady, here you go. And try to stay safe.” One of them says as he hands me a light pink colored sash to put under Mealla’s saddle. A few men were clearing the beaches from a previous race and setting everything up for the final one. My race. Everyone else’s race. The time has finally come and the Scorpio Races will begin. My father comes down the beach trail at the last moment with Mealla trailing behind him. She looks wild as the sea spits up its foam and salt into the air. I hurriedly lay the sash over Mealla’s back and redo the saddle over her. My dad kisses my forehead and hugs me again one last time before the races begin then heads off toward the finish line where he will be waiting for me when I finish. I head toward the starting line with Mealla. She tries to rear a few times but I keep her down on all fours. Her blue and white coat look darker from the sea foam and the mist. But the pink makes the blue stand out even more. I can already feel the sea magic working through her into my body. It’s a low hum, like a heartbeat, but it draws you toward the sea. The magic isn’t stationary, it’s compelling. And I feel like today is going to be a rough day.

                “Riders,  _line up_!” Some masculine voice shouts into the air. I head toward the starting line with Mealla and sneak a glance toward the waters. Just off in the distance, I see a huge red body in the water. My red  _capall_ wishing me luck. Other jockeys and  _capaill uisce_ gather around the line and they all move restlessly and bells jingle with every horse’s move. Everything worries me now.  _“Riders, line up!”_  The races will begin soon. The sky looks dismal and the waters look like they’re filled with rage. It’s time to begin the ending of this almost month long journey.


	7. Blood in the Waves

_“Riders, line up!”_

_That masculine voice shouts at us again as I climb up onto Mealla’s saddle that rested above the light pink blanket. That same light pink that I had put on as an armband. Something hits my leg then tumbles into my lap, a pair of goggles. I look around for who tossed them and I see the boy whose name I wrote backward in charcoal on that piece of paper. He is on his black_ capall  _stallion and smirks at me before heading off toward his spot at the finish line._

 _I don’t have time to thank him, or really say anything before he is gone. And I just have enough time to put the goggles on around my head, over my curls, before the poles were lifted. I grab Mealla’s reins and we are all off down this two mile stretch. The sea and wind are tangling my hair even more as my_ capall  _and I tear down the stretch of sand. So many others have pulled ahead in this race and now I’m in the middle of the pack. Mealla’s blue speckled coat is painted black and her long, muscular legs were grey instead of white._

 _A jockey and his_ capall uisce  _slam into my left side, pushing Mealla toward the Scorpio Sea. The long, lupine neck of the stallion snakes over and takes a bite out of the air right where my mare’s nose was before I jerked the reins. The stallion is a whole lot bigger than us and is about to slam into Mealla again, leading with its sharp canines. I let go of Mealla’s reins and she shoots forward through a gap between a few more_ capaill.  _We are free of the huge black stallion, but we’re smack in the middle of the huge pack. I look behind myself for just a moment to look at the back of the pack. There are red stains floating in the sky and on the waters. The horses and jockeys back there are all just a tangle of fighting, screams and shouting._

 _But the middle is no better. The thundering hooves are all I can hear except for screams of other sea-mad_ capaill _. Mealla keeps veering toward the sea, I’ve already seen one horse carry its rider into the harsh surf._

 _A horse with slimy skin bites into my arm and I scream with the madness of a_ capaill _at the pain. The sharp canines tear flesh and I swear I feel it hit bone. Blood seeps down my arm, darkening the fabric of my already dark sweater. In my shock, I let go of Mealla’s reins. She jerks underneath me and makes a beeline for the surf. My wonderful mount bucks me off, I’m only tethered to her by my foot caught in the right stirrup._

_The thundering hooves disappear from my vision and they dull as my head hits the ground. My vision blackens for a moment before I realize that I’m lying on my side. Salty waves wash over my body as I watch Mealla trip then plunge into the surf. The water recedes and returns to the sea with a red tint from the still-bleeding wound on my forearm. The sea magic calls for me even when I am lost near the sea. In the distance, I see a shimmering red equine figure. It looks more human, but it’s still a horse. It’s my red mare. It rears out of the water and calls for me, but Mealla’s form crashes through the space the red mare was. Both of them have disappeared._

_My eyes feel heavy and the goggles have fogged, I close my eyes…_

Just for a few moments, I tell myself.

* * *

                “Jemma?!” Charles, her father, shouts into the mess of riders at the finish line. The roar of the crowd above, on the cliffs, drowned out all noise that he made. Charles had kept his eye on Jemma the whole time, but some mainland idiot had bumped into him and he lost sight of his daughter. He hadn’t been able to find her again. He hoped to the spirits and gods and whoever else was out there, that Jemma was alive and okay.

                He shouts again for his daughter and still gets no reply. A boy comes running up beside him and grabs his arm. The boy has light brown hair and equally light eyes to match. Caiden, the boy Jemma had talked about during the riders’ parade.  _The name she wrote on the small piece of paper and threw over the cliff._

                The boy sounded out of breath. He had just run through all the rearing  _capaill_ toward Jemma’s father. “Sir, come with me.”

                Without any warning, Caiden grabs his arm and takes off down the beach toward the midway point of the beach. A body lay there, the body of an eighteen year old girl with short curly hair. Her arm was torn open raggedly and water pooled around her. Charles collapsed onto the sand and pulled his little girl into his arms one last time.

                “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

* * *

                Those few days after the race, all the mainlanders left. All but one. Charles had rented out a room in one of the Skarmouth hotels for two more weeks, the time it took him to settle a deal for a house. The small house was just down the street from where he lived as a boy, he reconnected with the people he grew up with but never completely recovered from seeing his daughter dead on the beach.

                Charles goes out onto the beach every night, to exactly the spot where his daughter was lying as her life drained into the Scorpio Sea.

                Three months later, he is down on the beach thinking about next years races. But something was off tonight. There was a shrill whinnying that pierced the night air tonight.  _Capaill don’t come on shore this long after November. Not usually._

                A small equine form stumbles out of the water. It’s the smallest Charles had ever seen a water horse. He approached the small form slowly as the foal limped out of the almost frozen waters. The small  _capall uisce_  had a dark coat and stark white legs. The foal wobbled right over to Charles and made no move to harm him, though he doubted it could do much harm.

                Just as the last light was starting to fade from the horizon, Charles spotted a  _capall uisce_ with a brilliant red coat just yards from the beach. It called to the small foal then dove beneath the surface. The foal looked exhausted and collapsed near my feet just as it called back to its mother. It was the last thing Charles thought he would do, but he picked up the exhausted foal and carried it back to his home. He had a small stable in the back where his island pony resided. He would care for this foal until it grew large enough for the races and he would get one of the island boys, or girls, to ride.

* * *

                The next morning, Charles found out that the foal was a tiny little filly. Her coat had dried to reveal her real color. It was a deep red chestnut, just a few shades lighter than the red  _capall_ mare he had seen last night.

                “You’ll be called Rua. My red gem. You’ll grow up to win those races, win them for Jemma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is the first real multi-chaptered thing I've written. And all thanks to thescorpioracesfestival on tumblr for prompting those challenges. The admin over there has done tons of things after this, and if you want to see everyone else's stories who participated they're under this tag: #thescorpioracesfestival.


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